February 2, 2015

You approach Henchley’s Brow, so named because of the scuzzy gorse running rampant along the dunes. Your destination is the inn located there, and whether or not you’ll find it is in doubt as you suffer leg-buckling lashes of fury from the howling storm. Finally, staggered sideways by a particularly violent gust, you slam against the very door of the inn. Grateful beyond measure, you enter and with great effort force the door shut behind you. Drenched, you puddle your way across the floor toward the lone occupant of the premises. From behind the bar, he regards your approach with beady eyes, never ceasing to polish the spectacles he holds in his hand.

‘A room,’ you say.

He looks you up and down before turning his head to the right and shouting, ‘Mag!’

A long twig of a woman, dressed in rags, appears at the top of the stairs. She stares at you with her great round eyes.

‘Wants a room,’ says the man polishing the spectacles.

The woman nods and beckons you with a taloned finger. You weigh going back out into the storm against climbing the stairs. You decide to climb the stairs, first patting the soaked pocket of your overcoat to reaffirm the comforting presence of the revolver. You ascend smiling. The hag returns your smile with one of her own featuring four teeth only, each one a slender dagger. She nods you to a room. You enter and are left alone in a cubicle, bare except for a plank of a bed. No, not alone. Something is there in the darkened corner. You slide your hand into the pocket holding the gun and take three steps forward.

robot helm

There she is. You die.

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